Welcome Home
by Ainikki
Summary: What really happened the night Xena was conceived? A rewrite of certain events in "The Furies."


Author's note: Okay. There's a lot to explain here. I'm a _Xena_ fan from way back (I started watching the show when I was five!), and I recently rediscovered—and fell in love with—the series all over again. However, I became terribly disturbed by YAXIs ("yet another Xena inconsistency") in the third through sixth seasons, and I dedicated a significant portion of time to finding fanfics that would fix those YAXIs for me. Finding that no single fanfic addressed everything that I really wanted to know/fix, I decided to write my _own_ fanfic—and here it is.

Because the YAXIs permeate virtually the entire series, I begin my rewriting with Xena's conception and birth, struggling (with competing accounts and information) to make a cogent whole out of Xena's past. (I do ignore the "ten winters ago" label, because there is virtually no way in Tartarus that anyone could accomplish everything Xena supposedly did in her past in the space of a single year, but I do try to keep the series' chronology consistent.) I may continue to do some smoothing out of YAXIs in the series proper as they arise, but the series itself is well-traveled fanfic territory, so I don't feel the pull to do that quite as much.

And so we begin with my rewrite of _The Furies_. Oi. I don't usually write the sex stuff, so please don't judge me too harshly.

1: Welcome Home

Xena's conception—what actually happened that night? Rated M.

Cyrene was alone in the tavern. The harvest had been poor this year, and most of the men of Amphipolis were gone to war. These circumstances limited both her supplies and her clientele. She ran a wet rag idly over the bar, which was already clean, and wondered for perhaps the hundredth time that night when Atrius would come home.

She didn't want him back just for himself, of course. Cyrene liked her husband well enough, provided he wasn't drinking, but she didn't want to see him because she liked him. She wanted to see him because he hadn't yet seen his son, Toris, and the child was nearly a year old. She was starting to think that the boy would never meet his father.

Cyrene's eyes flicked toward the back room of the tavern where the baby slept. She didn't see any shadows moving or hear any noise—he was probably still asleep. She set the rag down on the counter and went to go check on him.

As she suspected, the baby was still asleep. Dying light from the small window to the west patterned his face, and he twitched in his little bed. He was sucking his thumb again. It was a bad habit—Cyrene's mother had grown up buck-toothed because of it—but she didn't want to break him of it yet. She smoothed her son's thin, darkening hair and stood up, closing the curtains over the window. She glanced at the sky before shutting out the light and noticed thick clouds coming in from the south. It might rain tonight.

As soon as the curtains were in place, she returned to the main room of the tavern. The breeze shook the chains that served as the entrance curtain from the outside, and she shivered. There were three hearths in this room, but only one was lit. She briefly considered lighting another before dismissing the idea. She moved a chair closer to the fire, then retrieved her embroidery needle and thread from a drawer. She sat down by the fire and sewed the symbol of Hestia into a sheet of clean linen: a double-pronged pillar topped by a stylized flame.

As the fire warmed her and smoke drifted into her eyes, she yawned. She was about to set her embroidery aside and go to bed when she heard a clap of thunder from outside, followed by the sound of water beating on earth. Odd, she thought, for thunder to precede rain. She stood, stretched and was about to stoke the fire up when she heard the chains at the tavern's entrance jangle violently.

Cyrene reached for the fire poker on instinct, knowing that the noise had not been caused by the wind and fearing what someone might want this late at night. She whirled toward the tavern entrance with her makeshift weapon at her side, not in front of her—she didn't want to threaten away business; she merely wanted to protect herself.

When she recognized the man, she dropped the poker. Intense green eyes stared at her from a scarred, wet face. His coarse dark hair was plastered to his head. When he noticed the poker, his eyes widened; he smiled when she dropped it.

"Atrius," she breathed. He was fully armored except for his helmet, which was in his hand. As he came toward her, his movements were stiff and awkward. She reached him before he took two steps and caught him in a hug almost tight enough to crack his ribs.

"Ah," he grunted, and she stepped back from him carefully.

"Sorry," she said, pulling him into a gentler hug. "I missed you." After a moment, she let him go and smiled a little hesitantly. Finally registering his stiffness, she said, "Here. Let me help you."

When she reached up to pull his armor off of him, he stopped her. Holding her hand in both of his, he pushed her arm down, then caught her around the waist. Before she could react, he pulled her up until they stood eye-to-eye, foreheads pressed firmly together.

Cyrene's arms remained limp in something like shock. She looked into her husband's eyes and felt a shiver go down her spine. Those bright eyes fixed on hers for a moment, but as she watched him his gaze moved lower, down her body. She felt herself blushing like a maiden and tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip around her and she muffled a gasp.

The metal details of his chestplate were digging into her skin and she felt something sharp cutting into her waist. This was _not_ comfortable. But the more she squirmed, the tighter his grip became. She drew her arms up to his face and asked, softly, "Let me go?"

Something in his eyes flickered, and she felt his hands twitch from their position on her waist. Instead of letting her go, he moved one hand to the back of her neck and yanked up her face for a kiss.

She resisted him. She was tired, stunned and uncomfortable—she didn't want this. As if he sensed her reluctance, he removed his hands from her waist and moved them up her arms before drawing one hand gently across her breasts.

Her breasts responded to the touch despite her desires. Toris was still breastfeeding; her orbs were round, full, and her nipples hardened. She stifled a sigh and slapped Atrius off her, muttering "Not now," but he caught her again, kissed her again, more gently this time. When she pulled back again and opened her eyes, she froze.

His eyes were fire. She'd never seen him this way—

Noting her stillness, Atrius placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer in a gesture that was almost rough. His hands were bruising, but his mouth was so warm and yielding that she almost forgot the pain. Drawing back one more time, she looked into his eyes and ran one finger gently over a cut on his face. He placed one hand over her finger, brought his hand to his lips and kissed it.

This was strange. She had never before experienced such roughness—or such gentleness—with him before. Perhaps the war had changed him; perhaps he'd been love-starved for too long. Whatever the reason for the change, he clearly wanted her, needed her _now_—and for the first time in almost a year, her body was telling her that she, too, needed a man.

Her protests continued in her mind even after she gave in to him—she was so tired; he hadn't said two words to her; she wanted to know what was going on. But she forgot those protests as Atrius kissed his way down her body, alternating almost violent nips and licks with smoother, softer kisses. When he kissed his way down her stomach she cried out and clutched his hair, ripping her bodice down with her free hand, exposing her breasts.

Atrius' hands clenched on her upper arms and he pulled her up, gently but firmly, and leaned over her to take her nipple in his mouth. She closed her eyes, and lips trailed higher, latching onto her neck, and finally he kissed her again, settling his hips over her own as he moved. She heard a little sound like a moan; she's surprised when she realizes that she is the one that made it.

With one hand, Atrius pulled up the skirt of her dress, exposing the skin of her legs. He let his hand linger between her thighs, brushing her wet center before moving it away. Quickly, he undid the fastenings on his pants, guided himself forward and entered her. Then there was no time for anything; Atrius was in her, moving and kissing her face and her lips. Her hands roamed over his back, then lower to clutch his hips as her own pelvis rose off the ground and her legs twined around his.

With one last rough thrust, Atrius spilled his seed into her. He collapsed on top of her, still breathing hard. The remaining pieces of armor he wore dug into her skin; the pain of them pressing into her made her gasp long after her own climax passed. She shifted beneath him in an attempt to end the pain, and Atrius clasped her, holding her still. She was about to protest again, but his kiss silenced her. She felt him hardening against her stomach and moved quickly out from under him. As she straightened her bodice, now ripped, she felt her face flush.

Atrius stood in front of her, pulling up his pants. Cyrene raised her eyes to his face and felt the flush on her skin burn hotter. "What was that about?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged, then smiled. "I missed you."

She barked an uncomfortable laugh. "I guess so." Her breathing slowed gradually, and she wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Are you hungry? I can get you something—"

"Sounds good," he said with a grunt. He was almost fully dressed, and he'd used her kitchen rag to wipe himself off. "I need to take care of Rusty." Rusty was his horse. "I'll be back."

As she watched him go, walking more stiffly than his previous performance would have indicated, Cyrene realized that her shoulders were shaking. The flush on her face crept down the rest of her body, making her feel almost feverish. Her breasts and legs still felt hot where Atrius had touched them, as if he'd burned her by touching her. But the burning was not unpleasant—just—unfamiliar? She wasn't accustomed to it. She took a few deep breaths and leaned against a wall. A short time later, Cyrene stopped trembling and opened her eyes.

Atrius had gone outside, and he still hadn't seen Toris. The thought of her son shamed Cyrene briefly; she had left him alone all this time—and what if he'd heard the noise? Or had gotten up to see what was happening? He was a curious child. She shouldn't have let Atrius go without seeing Toris, either; that had been wrong of her. She shoved herself away from the wall and went to check on the baby.

Blessedly, Toris was still asleep. Cyrene dipped her hands in a bowl of water on one of the side tables of the room, dried her hands, then knelt to kiss her child's forehead. "My baby," she said softly. "You and me. Always." Then she heard a noise like jangling chains and stood up. She took a few steps toward the door to the outer room and bumped into Atrius.

He was fully armored again, with his sword strapped across his back and his face ruddy from recent exertion. She smiled. "Husband," she said, reaching for his hand. "It's good you're here. Come."

His brow creased. "Is this the welcome I get, woman?"  
She kept smiling. "I think the welcome I gave you before is…"

"What welcome?" he asked. "I just got back from the battle."

Cyrene shook her head once and leaned closer to him. There was a faint taste of wine on his breath. Strange. She hadn't remembered smelling it before. Maybe she hadn't been paying attention to that, what with everything else—or maybe he'd drunk something while in the stables. Because she was already close to him, she kissed him. His mouth responded languidly, and he pulled her closer. She gasped when his palms rubbed over her new bruises.

She pulled away from the kiss and rested the back of her hand on his cheek. "Was that welcome better?' she asked quietly.

To her relief, some of his roughness melted away. He grunted and turned away from her, unbuckling his chestplate as he moved. Beneath the metal and ripped leather, she saw a gash on his chest that looked new. Had that been there before? It must have been; she just hadn't seen it through the armor. She helped him undress, hoping her puzzlement didn't show on her face, and brought him some bread and cheese from the back room.

"Any wine?" he asked her. She went to fetch it wordlessly, though it was clear that he was already at least a little drunk. He ripped the jug from her hand when she returned with it, and she let her eyes drift to the floor where his armor lay in a messy pile.

Atrius downed the wine as quickly as if it were water, then collapsed in a chair near the bar. He rubbed his chest, bringing Cyrene back to herself; she fetched bandages and healing herbs from her rooms. _Their_ rooms now, she reminded herself. Her husband was home.

She dipped a clean cloth into a green paste meant to dull sensation and dabbed at Atrius' wound. He flinched, but let her work. It was hard to believe how virile he'd been before, looking at him like this—perhaps the shock of his injury had only just hit him? He caught her wrist as she moved away, and when she turned toward him, she saw something like warmth in his eyes. He hadn't meant to be rude to her. He was just in pain. Maybe his passionate behavior had made the pain worse—?

She guided him to the bedroom, half-supporting him to help keep his bandages in place, and laid him gently down. She flicked a glance at the adjoining room where her son slept, but decided not to wake him just yet. Atrius was in no condition to see the baby, even if he'd desperately wanted to. There would be time tomorrow morning. Cyrene slid into the bed next to her husband, settled the blankets more snugly around herself and closed her eyes.

Before she fell asleep, she thought she heard the chains in front of the tavern jangle again. She opened her eyes in alarm and saw Atrius next to her, sleeping peacefully, his chest moving up and down. She moved a little closer to him in the dark. He was home.

Author's Note: I tried to keep the ambiguity alive here. Ares seems to have been involved in Xena's conception (_The Furies_ more than hints at this), but watchers of the _Hercules_ series might remember that in the episode _Ares_ (episode 5 of the first season), Ares managed to make Atalanta forge weapons for children by possessing her for a short time. Something like that may have happened above, or Ares shape-shifted. Take your pick.


End file.
